Something like 117 billion human beings have ever lived. It’s a little dark but indisputably true that the vast majority of them are now dead…and the people alive today will one day join them. And what of all the animals that preceded them by millions of years? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh…
In Larry McMurty’s epic novel Lonesome Dove (grab at The Painted Porch), Augustus McRae stares out of the wide expanse of the Texas plains and ponders what has come and gone and been buried eon after eon. “Why, think of all the buffalo that have died on these plains,” he says. “Buffalo and other critters too. And the Indians have been here forever; their bones are down there in the earth. I'm told that over in the Old Country you can't dig six feet without uncovering skulls and leg bones and such. People have been living there since the beginning, and their bones have kinda filled up the ground. It's interesting to think about, all the bones in the ground.”
In Meditations, Marcus Aurelius makes a similar series of observations. He thinks of all the emperors that have come before him, listing not just their names but the names of the luminaries and power brokers who filled their courts. Where are they now, he asks? What’s left of them? In another passage, he points out that the same thing happened to both Alexander the Great and his mule-driver and now they’re buried in the same ground. This is life. This is what history and the passage of time does and always will.
People probably thought Marcus Aurelius was a bit of a downer. McRae’s observation is undoubtedly macabre. But there is also something beautiful, even reassuring about it. “The earth is mostly just a boneyard,” he says, completing his rumination. “But pretty in sunlight.”
Life is tragic. The human condition is fatal. The earth is insatiable. But it’s still pretty in sunlight, isn’t it?
They hoped he would grow into the job. They hoped that a tutor like Seneca would teach the boy some wisdom and gravitas.
Instead, Nero seemed to get worse as he grew up and gained power. He tried, multiple times, to kill his own mother (eventually succeeding). He banished a poet for being too talented. He forced Roman crowds to listen to him perform. He eliminated potential successors. He exiled philosophers. Even when this all came crashing down, and he was driven to suicide to escape the consequences of his mismanagement and enemies, he had to ask a secretary—Epictetus’ owner, as it happens—to do the deed for him.
Nero was, to paraphrase the song lyrics, the smallest man who ever lived. He might have possessed a great kingdom, but he did not command himself or his urges or his ego. He was vain and cowardly. Petty and vindictive. Murderous and untalented. He was rust on a sparkling empire.
The question is, as we’ve talked about before, how Seneca got so mixed up in it. What was he doing writing speeches for this guy? Advising him? Supporting him, when he was so obviously unsuited for power in every conceivable way. James Romm’s fascinating biography Dying Every Day, along with Emily Wilson’s The Greatest Empire offer several answers: Seneca was greedy. Seneca was hypocritical. Seneca was a martyr (thought he was the adult in the room, saving Rome from worse). Seneca was weak and then became strong when he finally turned on him.
In truth, Seneca was a lot like us, probably. He knew what he should do, but made excuses. He had trouble seeing what his salary—and status—depended on him not seeing. He hoped he could do things through Nero. He told himself it was not as bad as everyone said it was. He told himself he was waiting for the right moment.
Well, we’re in an election year here, not just in America but across the world. Let us learn from Seneca. Let us be reminded what happens when you let a man-child run a country, when ego and incompetence run amok.
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